


Empty Streets

by GoblinCatKC



Series: Clogged Drain Trilogy [3]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Creepy, Gen, Horror, Monsters, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-08-28 13:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16724403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoblinCatKC/pseuds/GoblinCatKC
Summary: (sequel to Clogged Drain and Dark Windows) Their lair haunted, the farmhouse destroyed, the four return to New York, wounded and exhausted, but the entire city is dark and the humans seem to have vanished. Determined to find their friends, they push into the snow-covered streets, hoping for answers.





	1. a long, dark road

The blizzard finally died down, no longer beating the doors of the barn. Michelangelo and Leonardo, still slow to recover, had been safely ensconced in the van, bundled up onto the few blankets and futons not ruined by blood and snow. The bedding was enough to cover the floor and make a nest, but it underscored the scant supplies they had left. A couple paper bags of boxed food went in the corner, a couple of over the counter pain medications...

Donatello came into the barn, fighting with the wind to pull the doors shut and latch them securely. Snow dusted off of his shell and arms, melting off of his feet as he came closer to the fire in front of the van's open doors.

"Got my laptop, a couple of other things," he said. "Is there anything else we're missing?"

"...I think that's it," Raphael said, staring at the fire. Sitting at the edge, he kicked his legs idly, his shoulders slumped. "Gonna be a long drive."

"If you want me to do it," Donatello started.

"Nah, s'cool." Raphael shrugged. "Just...we're going to April's place first, right? Ain't no other stops on the way?"

Donatello glanced at their siblings, both curled in the pile of blankets. Michelangelo was asleep, his plastron visibly rising and falling with each breath, and Donatello took some relief that his little brother was breathing at all. Shifting in the grip of fitful dreams, Michelangelo lay in the lap of the eldest, who sat with his back against the van, a blanket around his shoulders.

Leonardo returned his look.

"The corner store," Leonardo said without moving. "We'll hit it before we leave."

"Again?" Donatello asked. "I mean, so soon? It was only a couple days since—"

"We're not coming back," Leonardo said.

Donatello fell silent. They'd all known it, but to have it said made their leaving seem all the more final. One by one, their refuges were being destroyed. He grimaced to think of the wiring, the water heater, the patches on the walls, all the effort he'd put into the barn.

"I also need to put a new tire on this thing." Donatello sighed, looking at the van. "I'll be happy if we can get to a garage, snag some new wheels entirely."

"We'll keep our eyes open," Raphael promised. "Is there anything else?"

Donatello bit his lip. "...I guess not."

Loathe to leave their meager shelter, loathe to stay, they packed up the last few items they had and locked up the van. Donatello opened the barn doors, wincing when they blew wide open, and hurried into the passenger side.

"You guys okay back there?" he said over his shoulder.

"We're good," Leonardo answered.

And they rolled slowly into the snow.

Raphael immediately started cursing under his breath, fighting with the wheel to keep them steady. A shredded tire that was more rim than rubber on icy roads tested his driving, and he drove slowly so he wouldn't outrun his headlights. All he saw were white flurries against a velvet black night that ate up the road. Every few minutes they passed a farm house, and Raphael slowed the van to a halt at one driveway.

"Check it out," he said softly, motioning at the yard. "They got a pickup truck."

"So?" Donatello asked. "Not like we can use that inste—oh. Oh."

His gaze fell on the truck's tires. He glanced once at Raphael, not wanting to be the one to say it. Wordlessly, Raphael turned them toward the yard, put the van in park, and the two of them stole out into the night.

A job that should have taken seconds instead took long minutes as Donatello's fingers began to stiffen. Raphael had angled the van to cover them from the wind as much as he could, but as he worked the van's tire off, he felt his own blood beginning to turn sluggish. A New York winter just wasn't the place for a mutant turtle. He and Donatello worked the switch like pros, exchanging the tires, consoling their consciences that they weren't leaving the truck owner completely high and dry.

A thought that fled when he looked up and noticed that the house door was wide open, the hallway light flickering. He frowned. No one would leave the house open to the elements on a night like this. He was about to take a step forward when Donatello put a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head.

Curiosity killed the turtle. Raphael nodded once and they returned to the van, now riding more smoothly to the store.

Where he found the door likewise open, the lights on. Raphael and Donatello glanced at each other, not sure what to make of it. The screen door banged in the wind and light spilled out onto the snow.

"That...does not look promising," Donatello said softly.

"We gotta get supplies," Raphael whispered.

"What if something's still in there?"

"Check out the snow," Raphael said. "There's no footprints."

"So maybe it's still inside eating."

They stared at the door for another moment. There was no sound from behind them except their brothers' soft breathing, both of them fast asleep again.

Donatello put his hands on the dashboard, steeling himself. "We need supplies."

Raphael nodded once and breathed out in resignation. "Yeah. Let's go."

They hadn't recovered completely from before, shivering as they drew their weapons, moving as slowly as they could stand, flanking the door and looking in. Both of them went still.

Blood splashed one wall in a long arc that went from the ceiling to the floor, followed by long streaks that went to the door and disappeared under the piling snow. Grimacing, Raphael looked over his shoulder at the darkness. No footprints, no movement, nothing besides the white snow and the hum of the van's engines.

"Maybe we weren't the first course," Raphael said.

"I don't want to think about it," Donatello said, still holding his staff in one hand as he entered. "Let's hit the place hard and go."

"Yeah. Yeah."

With no thought for staying hidden, they pulled everything usable from the shelves—canned foods, boxed snacks, the last heavy duty flashlights and batteries on the shelves. There were throw blankets that they took, plus all the over the counter medication Donatello could bag. Instant coffee, hot water bottles that he filled up with an electric kettle he pulled out of its box, a handful of newspapers on the counter...

"Hey, Donny." Raphael lifted the newspaper in the display rack. "What day is it today?"

"Wednesday, I think. Why?"

Donatello came around and looked. The newspaper was several days old.

"...we can figure it out later," Donatello said. "Let's go."

"Yeah." Raphael grabbed a six pack of beer on the way out, ignoring Donatello's look.

They carried everything with them into the front, not wanting to turn their backs or endure the cold while loading the van. As they shut the doors, laboriously moving their loot into the empty backseat, they heard Leonardo's sigh of relief.

"Thank God," their brother murmured. "You took so long..."

There was no reproach in his voice, no anger. Raphael angled the rearview mirror to better see him and gave a reassuring smile.

"We're good. Got a ton of shit. Gonna fill up the tank in front—" he ran over Donatello's startled gasp at that "—and then we're outta here."

"Is that wise?" Leonardo asked. "We've already spent several minutes here."

"Trust me," Raphael said, driving them around the front. "Guy who works the joint, he don't care no more."

Filling up the tank was a complicated affair of breaking through the front door to turn on the gas pump, but nothing worse happened than feeling his hands go numb. Raphael briefly considered filling up an extra tank, but the sense of emptiness around him and the freezing cold drove him back into the van.

The air inside had changed. Raphael glanced back again and found Leonardo holding Michelangelo securely in his arms, his own eyes shut tight. Neither of them were asleep.

"You told 'em," Raphael muttered at Donatello.

"No point in hiding it," Donatello said. "I'll bet anything the house we stopped at was...was the same way. I'll bet this whole street was one long smorgasbord and we just happened to be the end of it."

"If that was all of 'em," Raphael said. "No way to tell when all of that started."

He drove them back onto the road. He didn't drive quickly, satisfied by the full tank gauge and the steady weight of the van on the ice. If he went slow, there wouldn't be any trouble. And he figured anything else outside couldn't keep up with twenty miles an hour.

"...no," Donatello mused. "Not when it started exactly. But when Leo and I first went out, we saw a car going down the road at an insane speed. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but...afterward, when we saw the police car, things must have been happening then. We've just been so cut off from civilization that we didn't notice."

The road droned on. Raphael tried the radio and found only static. Donatello turned the dial methodically, trying every station. He found one recording of the emergency broadcast signal, but it only played on repeat.

"We left the city at night," Raphael said. "We drove out. I remember being grateful we barely saw anyone on the road, but now..."

"We still had a couple stations," Donatello said. "NPR was playing until...well. Until."

No one had a good response for that. For over half an hour, Raphael drove along the muddy farm road, finally coming to the empty highway. He could see for miles in each direction, but there were no other headlights. With a nervous swallow, he turned onto the highway and started toward the city.

"Y'know," he said, "nothing says we gotta go back. We could just keep going south. Someplace warm."

Donatello didn't answer at first. He glanced in the mirror at his brothers. Michelangelo was staring at the back of the van, watching the snow, and Leonardo merely glanced once at Donatello, lowering his gaze almost as fast.

Leonardo wouldn't say what to do. Donatello leaned back in his seat.

"I think...we could fit a couple more people in the van," Donatello said slowly. "Drive everyone out."

Raphael tightened his grip on the wheel. "If there's anyone to pick up."

After a long silence, they finally came to the turn-off with the sign of the city and the miles left to go. Raphael came to a halt on the road, glancing at Donatello. There was no reply. Donatello met his look, shook his head once and couldn't say what to do.

Raphael looked between the off-ramp and the long stretch of road in front of him.

And then quietly took the turn toward New York.

"You'd think there'd be more cars on the side of the road," he said too casually. "Like in all the zombie flicks, cars out of the city stalled and busted up."

"So it's not zombies," Donatello said. "Yay?"

"I really don't wanna fight more devils," Raphael said. "Or ghosts. Or...whatever the fuck is out there."

"We won't," Donatello said firmly. "We get in, check on April, and then we all go. Takes less'n ten minutes. If she's not there, even faster."

Raphael nodded once. He didn't mention that the street lights seemed to be glowing on automatic, with several burned out along the way.

When the sky finally began to lighten, turning a dingy grey of thick clouds, they finally saw the city rising up ahead of them. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, but as they passed small shops and convenience stores and motels on the way, they noticed that many of them had their lights on, had doors open, had broken windows.

Donatello tightened his fingers around his seatbelt. He had no doubt what they would find inside each one.

"This is crazy," he murmured. "What happened?"

"It can't all be those things," Raphael said. "I mean, we never even seen them before, and now this?"

"I don't know," Donatello said. "Not enough data. Just...just don't stop."

"Yeah...no stopping 'till we reach her shop."

The road through the silent city seemed to stretch forever. Donatello looked for any sign of life, of activity. He saw nothing through the windows, only the occasional spray of shattered glass from a car windshield, blood on an open door.

When they arrived at April's shop, they parked, then simply sat studying the storefront. No blood. No open door. No lights.

"She should'a heard the engine," Raphael whispered.

Donatello didn't reply. Long seconds passed. He gathered his staff and scanned the entire street. The roads and sidewalks were devoid of footprints, covered in a fresh layer of undisturbed snow. Nothing moved.

"Less'n ten minutes," he said softly.

With a deep breath, they opened the van and stepped out.


	2. monsters unseen

Not night, not morning—the sun wasn't up but pale light glared through the clouds that pressed down on the city. In another hour, there would be a storm and snow drifting across the highway in heavy waves. This was a lull in the freezing wind, nothing more, the calm in the center of gale.

Silent save for the inescapable sound of snow crunching underfoot, Raphael and Donatello moved to flank the door, quietly pulling it wide. The lock was broken and hanging off—it dropped toward the ground and landed neatly in Raphael's palm an inch from the ice. Both he and Donatello gave a quiet sigh of relief as he set it quietly aside.

They listened a moment more, straining to hear anything—footsteps, moans, bones clacking. There was nothing, and the cold drove them to shelter inside sooner than they would have liked. Raphael closed the door but didn't let it settle in its frame. They might have to run, and a stuck door could cost them precious seconds.

Donatello tried the lights. Nothing flickered. He noticed his breath misting in the cold air.

"Heater's off," he whispered. "No power at all."

"Sweep the place," Raphael replied, never looking away from the counter and shelves. "She ain't here, we go."

Donatello nodded once. They moved together, loathe to separate, and checked each corner, glanced behind every antique desk and couch and chest. At the bathroom for customers, they both paused.

Long gouges dug deep into the door, the splintered wood running its length. The door itself hung off its hinges, creaking in the gusts from the window. Snow and ice covered the broken glass and blew in small drifts that gathered on the floor.

Raphael drew his sais. Donatello brought his staff into his hands.

They found the rugs shredded and the floor beneath scratched, and the trail went to the stairs that led to April's apartment. There was no blood yet, but they warily advanced, sure that there was something in the darkness. The door to the stairs lay wide open, the steps barely visible.

They paused. There was only enough room to go one at a time. Swallowing once, Raphael wordlessly went ahead, careful to step near the wall to muffle the noise.

A heavy thump sounded above them, heavy enough to shake dust from the floorboards, and it ran sprinting steps along the length of the ceiling, racing toward the top of the stairs. Raphael grit his teeth, clenching his sais, leaning back against the wall to brace himself. Donatello brought his staff up, ready to advance with a first powerful thrust.

But nothing appeared.

Long seconds passed.

They exchanged a look, waiting a minute longer. Raphael took a deep breath, then another, steeling himself, and then he started up the steps again.

At the top of the stairs, in pitch blackness, he turned and found the door open only a sliver. Faint light outlined the space between the door and the frame, and he pushed the door inch by inch.

It opened to a hallway that ended in another closed door.

He narrowed his eyes. One door toward the end, one in the middle...an empty hall. And they hadn't heard the sound of anything closing. If someone had been sprinting, they couldn't have just vanished.

A faint rustling, something brushing the old wallpaper, warned him in time to jerk backward, missing the black blur that swiped where his head had been. There was a growing hiss, a murmur like breath blown out in a rush, and he stabbed upward instinctively.

Something cold and wet slid around his hand and clenched tight. He slashed blindly and heard a faint shriek, felt a splatter on his face. Then Donatello's staff snapped past his head, striking something he couldn't see, a shadow of something above him-

He was dragged suddenly along the floor, his hand still caught in its grip as it skittered along the ceiling toward a vent. The cover was already off and it was vanishing inside, crawling into the darkness and dragging him up along with it, painfully twisting his hand and arm to follow.

"Fuck no fuck no fuck fuck—"

Raphael caught the edge of the vent with his other hand, bringing his feet up on either side, pulling back with all his strength. The vent reverberated with its angry snarl, and pain blossomed around his wrist as Raphael was slowly, inexorably drawn in to his shoulder.

Donatello clasped both arms around his brother's waist, braced his feet against the wall, and put all his weight and strength behind his struggling. Raphael winced, shaking as his muscles strained—the sides of the vent buckled and splintered—he realized that he wasn't going to fit any further down that vent unless his body crushed in on itself—

Wetness sprayed against his face as the terrible pulling vanished. They dropped to the floor, Raphael squashing his brother. He tumbled off and scrambled to his hands and knees, moving all too slowly as he came to his feet.

The vent was silent.

"Oh, like hell do I think you're gone," Raphael muttered, tightening his grip on his sai. "Know better than to think that you just vanished."

On the floor, Donatello winced as he slowly clambered to one knee, leaning heavily on his staff.

"So let's vacate the area before it shows up again," he said. "Finish the sweep and—oh. Oh shit. Raph, Raph, back up. Raph..."

At first Raphael could only stare at the vent, looking for the faintest movement, the blurriest shape in the darkness. It took several seconds of his brother jostling him before he recognized Donatello's insistent tone and followed his gaze.

His right hand to the elbow was a mass of bloody lacerations. Two of his fingers had been laid open to the bone, still clenched tight around his sai. Blood welled up from the sliced muscle and tissue, dripping down his arm.

He stared at the damage for several seconds.

"It...is that..." He blinked. Swallowed once. "Donny, I don't—is that...real?"

"Let's try the bathroom," Donatello said, trying to keep his voice even. "Patch it up quick before you feel anything. Before you faint."

They were already in front of the bathroom door. Donatello kicked it in, just in case the thing was behind it, and he breathed easier seeing nothing. Just the toilet, the sink, the cramped tub and the shower curtain drawn halfway.

Sitting his brother down on the closed toilet, Donatello went through the medicine cabinet. Their past visits meant he knew where everything was, but he fumbled and dropped things into the sink—pain killers, sutures, gauze, wrap... He got his hand around the pain pills first and lined up the little triangles on the cap to open it, spilling out a bunch into his brother's good hand.

Water ran when he turned the tap, and he held the cup for Raphael as his brother drank.

"We can do this outside," Raphael mumbled, grimacing as the pills went down. "Ain't safe in here. Ain't..."

"Shut up and let me think." Donatello put his brother's hand under the water, washing away the blood so he could get a good look at the damage. A struggle ensued until he could draw the sai out of his brother's mutilated grip. He flinched, but he kept the hand under the water until the blood began to slow. He only shook a little as he threaded a needle.

"If you're gonna do it," Raphael said, "then how's about you quit shaking like you never seen muscle laid open before, huh?"

"You want me to sew your mouth shut?" Donatello said. "Synthetic braided suture, good for lacerations, less than ideal conditions of course—"

"Donny..."

"Patient won't take a hint and shut up." Donatello glanced back at the medicine cabinet. "No chloroform. Damn."

The stitching took long minutes. Raphael watched the door and the vent, expecting something to launch out at them, sagging a little more with each panting breath.

"Adrenaline burst is wearing off," Donatello murmured. "I'd check for combativeness and irritation, but, well, look who I'm dealing with."

"Ha." Raphael's gaze twitched down to his hand—fingers stitched back together, the muscle of the heel of his hand pushed back together and sewn with such neat strokes that he would have teased his brother for sewing like a girl if his hand didn't feel like hamburger.

Raphael looked away again.

"You think—" he started.

They froze, listening.

Another faint scuff came from the tub. A breath.

Raphael looked at his brother, but Donatello was already standing and sweeping the shower curtain back.

Curled up tight at the end of the tub, April lay with her head on her shoulder, eyes closed, wearing only a tanktop and shorts. One hand covered her throat, protecting herself even in her sleep, and her other hand lay outstretched holding a bottle of pills.

Donatello leaned over her, studying her for wounds, injuries, bleeding. There was nothing. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused as she stared past him. A few seconds passed as she came out of her interrupted dream, realizing that she lay in her bathtub with a dark shadow between her and the light.

She didn't scream. Her hand went to her mouth, covering it tightly, smothering any noise she might have made. Her entire body went rigid, so tense that she trembled, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"April?" Donatello sat down on the edge of the tub. "April, it's me."

She didn't move, somehow tensing even more as he touched her shoulder. At feeling his rough skin, she grimaced, tightening her grip on the bottle. Her eye opened a fraction, finding him in the blurry light, staring at him for a long moment as she made out his silhouette, his shape. Finally recognized him.

With a silent, wordless gasp, she came up and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his throat. He held her in return, sharing a startled look with his brother.

Her outburst didn't last long. Gulping down air, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, drying her tears.

"Where have you—" she whispered, then shook her head. "No, later. We have to leave."

"We just came back for you," Raphael said.

She raised a hand, frantically waving for him to lower his voice.

"Don't make a sound," she whispered, and her voice grew even softer. "Don't you know?"

Raphael shrugged once, wincing at how the motion pulled at his arm.

"Clue us in?" he murmured. "We been at the farm since we ran from home."

"You got out?" she said. She bit herself off again. "No. Leave first. Questions later. We need to go."

"No arguments here," Donatello said. "Let's get your—"

"No," she said. "If we can go, we go now. Before it comes back."

A terrible thought struck her, and she looked at them both with widening eyes.

"It's gone, right? The one in the hall?"

When they didn't answer immediately, she backed against the wall, a hand on the shower curtain, ready to pull it closed again. She brought the pills to her chest like a lifeline.

"I think so," Donatello said, hands up to reassure her. "It left through the vent. Nearly dragged Raph with it."

Her gaze flickered to Raphael, freezing on his mangled arm and the blood splattered on the floor.

"Let's just get some of your clothes," Donatello said, trying to get her attention again. "Supplies, things you need—"

"No," she breathed, shaking her head once.

"It's freezing—"

"No," she said, her voice a low moan, covering her face with her hand. "No, no—"

Donatello's voice hardened.

"I am not watching someone else almost freeze to death," he said. "If you won't come, I'll—"

She reached out, grabbing his hands, holding him back with a fierce shake of her head.

"You can't," she whispered desperately. "It's in there."

He watched the fear tighten its grip on her, bringing tears to her eyes. He wondered how many pills she had taken and how long she'd been holed up in this cramped room. He drew her close, turned and gently pushed her into Raphael's lap. She didn't resist but pressed her fists to her mouth, muffling the sobs making her shoulders shake.

"Donny, don't go alone—" Raphael started.

"Be right back," Donatello said, brooking no argument.

For all his bravado, he stared at the door at the end of the hall for a long moment. He heard nothing but the sound of the wind and snow, muted by the walls. The door seemed to wait for him, and he almost expected the knob to start turning of its own accord.

They needed to go. Now. His mouth set in a firm line and he crossed the hall, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards. He turned the knob infinitely slowly, silently, and pushed the door open.

Nothing.

Just her small apartment, her bed in the middle against the wall, her drawers and closet, some clothes strewn haphazardly around—

No.

He felt the chill spread through his whole body as he brought his staff to bear.

There was something in this room. He felt it—primal animal instinct felt the danger and threat and hunger in this room. There, precisely there, under the bed, in the darkness under the messy blankets hanging half on the mattress.

It knew he was there.

Was this what Michelangelo had complained about years and years ago, the monster under the bed? Donatello had laughed off those fears even as a child. Monsters weren't real. Weren't logical. Couldn't exist.

Even with his recent experiences of ghosts and cryptids, he would have felt this. There was no mistake. Deep devouring fangs and claws waited underneath that bed.

He didn't step into the apartment. With the long reach of his staff, he snagged what lay on her nearby dresser—jacket, one sneaker, then the other, pants.

Something shifted under the bed. He didn't hear it, didn't see a rustle of the blankets. But the air changed. With the clothes under one arm, he backed away and closed the door as fast as he could—as soon as he couldn't see into the room, he sensed the movement, knew it was coming, and coming fast, knew he had to close the door but if he made a sound, it would rush with fangs wide—

The door clicked shut.

He breathed out a sigh of relief.

And as he stepped away, the thump-drag and slide of something moving along the apartment floor followed after.

Donatello ran. Raphael was already at the bathroom door, April gathered up in his good arm, and without question, they ran down the hall, down the stairs—slamming the doors shut after themselves—and into the shop. They paused behind the display shelves by the cash register, just long enough for April to step into the pants and shoes, shrug into the jacket. All the while listening to movement upstairs, hoping the sound didn't reach the hall, hoping there was no other sound in the vents.

"It was a customer," she said breathlessly, buttoning the pants over her shorts. "It was human, and then it wasn't. And the thing in my room, I don't know. I don't know. I was stuck in the bathroom for days. I..."

Her voice muffled as she brought the jacket's hood up. Even as she was pulling both of them toward the entrance, she grabbed a heavier coat off a rack, holding the coat shut without sparing time for the buttons.

With April between them, Raphael and Donatello scanned the street. Donatello had the distinct feeling of shepherding them along, protecting them both as they went to the van. Raphael wasted several seconds plunging his hand into the snow, numbing the pain.

Donatello flung open the van's rear doors, helping April in...

They all stopped, staring at the blood spilled on the floor of the van, the scattered blankets slashed apart, the huddled form of Michelangelo curled up in the corner, trembling. And Leonardo, gone.


	3. fire on snow

Michelangelo lay on his side, his eyes shut tight and his arms wrapped around himself. The van door opened, and he curled a little tighter, refusing to look.

"Leo?" he called out.

"Nope." Raphael clambered up into the van, clutching his torn hand to his side, and pushed Michelangelo's shoulder. "Any of this yours?"

Michelangelo shook his head once, swallowing nervously. "Is it...are you...?"

He couldn't think of how to frame the question, and Raphael sat beside him, not caring about the blood.

"Come on, dude, sit up." Raphael nudged him again, starting to haul him up against his side. "Talk to me."

"It's not with you, is it?" Michelangelo let himself be manhandled, turning his head toward his brother and hiding his face against Raphael's throat. "Is it dead?"

"Gonna have to be a lot more specific than that," Raphael sighed.

April grumbled about them not having time for this and climbed up into the van, closing the doors and listening for the click that meant they were locked. With an apologetic look at Raphael, she crawled over them and pulled herself into the front passenger seat, awkwardly arranging herself so that she could hug her legs to her chest. She locked the door beside her, scanning the streets around them.

Donatello took the driver's side, putting the key in and starting the van. The heater kicked on, blowing cold air that was slow to warm.

"More importantly," Donatello said, "where's Leo?"

"I don't know," Michelangelo said, and he covered his face with his hands as he started to shake. "It grabbed me, and then it was screaming and he was running after it."

Raphael groaned and stared at the ceiling. He kicked the floor once, cursing. "And you all call me the hothead."

"No one has a monopoly on stupid in this family," Donatello said. "Raph, do you see any footprints?"

"Not a damn thing." Raphael crawled forward and looked out the rear windows. "Smooth as fucking ice. Can we call him?"

"With what?" Donatello asked. "Did you grab a shellcell?"

"Mine was busted," Raphael said.

"So was mine," Donatello said. "And Leo and Mikey were both in the water. If we're separated..."

Raphael felt cold tendrils creeping through himself, anxiety and frustration popping up like thorns in his stomach.

"We should'a planned for this," he said. "We should have figured it could happen."

"Kick yourself later," April said. "We need to find a place to hide. Some place with no monsters. Leo's smart, he'll find us."

"He's not omniscient," Donatello said. "If we're going—"

"We need to go," Michelangelo insisted.

"—then it needs to be some place he'd think to look." Donatello waved his hand at the city before them. "Where do we go? He won't go back to the lair, he'll know we left here when he sees the van's gone—"

"Donny, we need to go now," Michelangelo said.

There was a panicked edge to his voice that made them all look up.

They didn't see anything at first, but they began to feel the creeping edge of animal instinct, the sense that something was watching them, and that it was hungry. April pressed back against the seat, looking in all directions, straining to hear anything.

They all heard the glass break outward from her apartment window. And then something heavy dropped on top of the van.

* * *

The roads were nothing but flat, perfectly smooth snow and ice, biting like knives as Leonardo sprinted after the shadow bounding away before him.

He didn't know what drove him to move. He hadn't been so full of energy before—warmed by the van's heater, holding his little brother. He'd felt completely drained by everything before. Ghosts. Monsters. The snow. A plunge in frozen water.

He shouldn't be alive. His little brother shouldn't be alive. And they hadn't felt alive, just existing always on the edge of freezing to death.

But then something had pushed its hand through the van's rear lock, yanking the door wide open. Something had grabbed Michelangelo's leg and begun to drag him all too fast toward the cold.

Between his brother's startled scream and his own stabbing panic, Leonardo had reacted mindlessly. He hadn't thought to catch his brother's hand. He hadn't even thought to find his sword somewhere in the van. There'd been no time to think.

He'd lunged over Michelangelo, grabbed the flash of white in the blur of black, and pulled.

Something sharp sliced into his hand. And then he'd ripped the—jaw? fangs? bone?—out of the creature, spraying blood everywhere. There'd been a howling scream, and then it turned and fled.

He didn't know what he was running after. Its footprints were splotches that had no shape. Its outline wavered, and Leonardo jerked to a stop every few steps, thinking that it had suddenly turned around to attack. He could see eyes, a mouth, arms—but then no, it was still running away even though he could see the outline of faces moving across its skin.

They turned a corner, heading down a street with a huge mound of snow in the middle. The thing plunged through the snow, and Leonardo had to leap hard to the side as metal and steel shrieked and toppled over.

Cars. Dozens of cars had been crushed together, stacked and piled without rhyme or reason as if they'd been tossed aside by a giant child. Without the ice and inertia to hold them in place, they collapsed and spread out in a burst of snow that covered the street and temporarily whited out the air.

Leonardo paused, backing into a doorway to shield himself from the flying ice.

This was stupid. He looked over his shoulder and realized he couldn't tell which way he'd come. And he was cold. He wasn't so long from the frozen pond at the farm that he should be shrugging off plunging through the snow, and the drifts were easily up to his knees.

The cloudy air began to settle. He looked across the mess of cars and spotted the churning mass of eyes and mouths and tendrils as it waited at a smashed display window. And then it ducked inside, leaving pieces of itself dripping on the jagged glass.

The thought that he was increasingly lost went away, pushed aside as Leonardo vaulted over the pile of cars and pushed through the snow. He kicked in the door and hit the lights.

No electricity. Pale winter light barely reached past the broken window, sparkling on the ice covers chairs, tables and a bar.

No sound except the wind and the back door banging on its hinges. Leonardo stayed against the wall, eyes open, watching for movement. His hand, sliding along the bar, touched an ashtray with a cigarette inside and a box of matches nearby. Without looking, he thumbed the box open and slid out a match, one-handedly striking it on the rough back of the wood.

He held up the flame—

He felt the creature roaring toward him more than he saw it, like a ripple in water that distorted the air around it, opening up like a gigantic mouth. He fell back against the shelves as bottles crashed down, felt it wrap around him with a thousand sharp points—it contracted almost as fast as it struck him, flailing as it hit the floor. He stared at it, wiping blood from his face, before he realized that the flame was still lit inside of its body, burning parts of it into blackened char.

If Donatello had been there, his brother could have made a rational observation, come up with justifications and reasons and instant hypothesis.

Leonardo simply understood that fire hurt it, and he had a box of matches and alcohol behind him.

None of the alcohol had frozen in their bottles and it all splashed satisfyingly across the floor. The flame that followed the fumes burned like a rainbow of orange and purples, racing across the bar and up the chairs, swirling like boiling water where the creature shrieked and flailed. It was impossible to see it clearly now. He could only tell where the thing ended and began from the blackened edges that now flaked off.

The shelves began to rain glass as bottles exploded flaming alcohol. Leonardo watched them, entranced as they splashed the walls, the creature...himself.

His hand was on fire. His whole arm, even. He watched it, watched the skin blister and break and darken, thinking that something was wrong, that he should be doing something, but the smoke was so thick that he couldn't do anything but try to cough—

He was thrown to the ground and pushed into the snow. Someone was shouting beside him, dragging him backward, and he couldn't push them away. He heard himself saying that he had to watch the flames, he had to finish watching, but he was becoming more aware of how cold he was and how hard it was to move, and no one was paying attention to his rambling anyway.

"Get him in and let's go!" Donatello revved the engine hard, shaking as he waited the terrible handful of seconds it took Michelangelo to drag Leonardo into the back. Before the doors were even shut, he hit the gas, trusting Raphael to somehow grab them and keep them inside as the tires screeched one second of leeway before lunging forward.

Through one door flailing wide, they saw the black smoke billowing from the raging inferno that had been a bar, saw the street stretching behind them, and saw the amoebus shape galloping after them.

"It's got claws now," Raphael yelled, throwing Leonardo and Michelangelo against the seat while he risked grabbing the door and slamming it shut. "I don't think we can just sending it flying it off the roof again."

"Set it on fire," Leonardo offered, not noticing Michelangelo gasping at the molten mess of his arm and the flesh that was still smoking.

"We aren't stopping to try, " Donatello shouted over his shoulder, turning a corner that sent them flat against the side. "Where the hell is the—shit!"

The screeching brakes and April's scream were their only warning as the van slid over ice and smashed solidly into a mountain of snow.

There was a moment of silence as they sat, stunned.

The van horn blared as Donatello leaned on the steering wheel, groaning and staring out the cracked windshield. Beside him, April held her hands to her face, her nose bloodied by the sudden punch of the airbag.

In the back, without seatbelts or safety gear, they'd fared worse. Michelangelo and Raphael lay jumbled together in amidst the supplies that now lay in wild disarray, and Leonardo was left up against the wheelwell as the rear doors lay wide open.

The thing behind them was still coming.

A bottle rolled across the van floor and touched Leonardo's hand. He looked down and saw a bottle of beer, probably Raphael's. Blinking once, he turned it over. He didn't know the brand, but it was certainly a high enough proof.

He looked back at the thing—as before, it was opening wide to devour him. He had the distinct feeling that it was like an umbrella opening up, and it would close on his head and hand as he raised it in defense.

It was closing on him just as he realized that his hand was still on fire as he smashed the bottle onto its sharp, jagged, hard teeth. There was a spray of fire and its scream...

...and then he was sitting on the ground, up to his waist in snow. Michelangelo sat beside him, packing snow over his whole arm that Leonardo saw was blackened with burns.

"Will you quit moving?" Michelangelo muttered. "Seriously, I'll knock you out, see if I don't..."

Leonardo stared at him for a moment, then looked at the smoking lump of dead thing just a few feet away. It twitched and contracted, just as undefinable as before, a splayed mass of teeth and tendrils and disgustingly burned flesh.

Watching the last red embers boring holes into its body was satisfying in a way he couldn't have explained, and he didn't hear his brothers arguing behind him.

"That's it," Donatello said, pulling wires out of the dash to silence the horn. "That's all she wrote."

"What?" Raphael crushed his mutilated hand against his side. "You mean—?"

"Van's dead," Donatello said. "Wherever we go now, we're walking."

"Sun's going down," April said. She pulled her jacket tighter around herself. "We gotta get inside somewhere safe."

"Where's safe?" Donatello demanded, and he looked at her as if he expected the buildings to suddenly start erupting with monsters. "There's nothing left. Those things go through vents, through doors, through...what the hell are these things even?"

"They were people," she said with a numb shrug. "I don't know now."

She looked down the street. There were apartment buildings, store fronts, a sign for a charter school. And a window display for the Mulberry Street Library, still closed for renovations.

"There?" she asked.

They followed her look. Donatello frowned, thinking that there had to have been people inside, that they had to be monsters now. He didn't have enough information to make a decision.

But if he looked at his brothers...Raphael was hiding the pain as he gathered a few pitiful supplies into a blood-stained bag, and Michelangelo was trying to get the attention of their brother as he stared at the ruins of his arm, with small, startled laughter between lapses into silence.

The sun was a small gray dot above the horizon.

"What the hell," Donatello said. "Can't be worse than out here."

April gave him a look that said it could indeed be worse, but she didn't argue as she helped gather a few things from the van and stood lookout as he picked the lock and let them all in.


End file.
